


Dirty Magazines

by ellerean



Category: Free!
Genre: Asexuality, Gen, Haru is literally watersexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3817579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerean/pseuds/ellerean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When fourteen-year-old Haru discovers a dirty magazine, he's more indifferent than interested. Little changes as he gets older.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Magazines

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Asexy April](http://asexy-april.tumblr.com)! I'm so pleased to be contributing to this event again.

They were only fourteen when he found the dirty magazine under Makoto’s mattress. Haru was supposed to be changing into his pajamas while Makoto took a shower, so the door was closed. He quickly flipped through to confirm its contents, as if the topless lady on the front wasn’t proof enough. She was winking at him, leaning forward with her clasped hands below her breasts. Haru had tilted his head, staring at her face, then hid the magazine back under the bed. He wasn’t known for being couth but never asked about it; Makoto would be embarrassed enough just to own something like that.

He’d tried not to think about it—imagining how Makoto would look at it before bed, and maybe he would get excited over it. _They’re just pictures_ , Haru thought. It wasn’t like they’d never seen naked bodies, though he couldn’t admit to ever seeing a girl’s. The closest he came was in elementary school when Aki ran out of the locker room with a towel tucked up under her armpits, having forgotten her swim bag. They’d been young and unembarrassed; Haru had been the only one left in the pool, and she’d threatened to kill him if he told anyone.

“Why would I tell someone?” he’d asked, before dipping under the water again.

He’d nearly forgotten the scenario until he found the dirty magazine, even though the busty lady on the front had nothing in common with Aki Yazaki.

None of them had dated in high school; Gou was the only one to express any sexual interest at all, though from a distance. Nagisa would occasionally tell a dirty joke, and it was amusing to watch Rei blush, but none of them had had the time for a relationship.

So when they were in college, and Makoto said he was seeing someone, it was almost impossible. He’d never admitted to _liking_ someone, and now he had a girlfriend. Haru remembered the magazine under his mattress, though he hadn’t thought of it for years. Makoto was muscular—anyone could see that—and an image flashed in his mind of him _using_ his body, for something besides swimming. “Congratulations,” Haru said, for lack of anything better.

Makoto wasn’t the only one, of course. Friends in his classes and on the swim team often spoke of significant others, bragging about girlfriends and exchanging sex tips in the locker room. He reverted to his younger self, silent and brooding, wanting only to change quickly and get into the pool. He’d join in the conversation if they spoke about swimming, but everything else was boring.

He called Rin. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“A— A _what_? No!” Haru could hear the faint creak of the bed as Rin sat up. “Is this about Makoto?”

“No,” he replied, defensive.

“I’m not seeing anyone. I don’t have time for that.”

Haru stood at his window, watching people pass on the sidewalk below. “Me too. But”—he paused, waiting for Rin to interrupt, thought he didn’t—“do you want to?”

It was too long before there was an answer. Haru thought the call had been dropped, but then he could hear Rin breathe. “Guess it would be nice,” he admitted. He couldn’t see Haru frown. “Why, you wanna cuddle when I come visit?”

“ _No._ Idiot.”

Makoto used to call Haru more at night, but those phone calls had steadily dwindled. They’d chat in the afternoon, or right before dinner, but Haru understood that the evenings were reserved for her. He didn’t mind—the days were getting longer and warmer, and he could spend more time in the pool.

Swim practice was one thing, but _swimming_ was another. Haru had come to enjoy practice, and was getting better with caring about his time, but at night he swam for himself. It wasn’t for speed; it wasn’t for anyone. The pool was closed to the public by eight o’clock, and at that hour he could get a lane to himself.

There was no coach shouting over him, and no teammates. There was no one as Haru swam, one long lap after another, and he wished only that there were no walls, no barriers, no need to break stride and turn. He just wanted to swim, and to keep going.

He wanted it to be silent, save for his body parting the water. He wanted to ignore the lifeguard who waved him down, hours later, to say the pool was closed.

There were some things he liked about living in a city, even if he missed Iwatobi the most—the city never truly closed, and he wasn’t obligated to return home just because it was nightfall. They didn’t live near the ocean, not like at home, but he could sit on the pier and watch the gently-lapping waters of Tokyo Bay.

Haru perched at the edge of the pier, hugging one leg while the other swung over the water. He wasn’t wearing a swimsuit—it was damp in the bag beside him—and it was just as well, because he didn’t think he could resist slipping into the water. He smiled, pleased over his own restraint. Across the bay were the glittering lights of another city, evidence of life, of people wandering alone or stumbling home with friends or asleep beside someone they loved.

As Haru stood, his thighs burned with overexertion. It was the weightlifting that killed him; he could swim for hours and never tire like this. He threw his swim bag over his shoulder and took one long look at the water before turning for home.

 

* * *

 

When he visited Makoto’s apartment, he searched for outward signs of her—toiletries in the bathroom; pajamas folded in his dresser. He didn’t exactly snoop in Makoto’s night table drawer, if a quick peek could be considered snooping. Sex wasn’t something they’d ever talked about, and Makoto would be embarrassed about the topic. But there were no toiletries and no ladies pajamas, and certainly no condoms tossed into the nightstand.

“Are you okay, Haru?”

They’d just been sitting at the table, with Makoto talking about school, and Haru realized too late that he hadn’t answered his previous question. He vaguely remembered the conversation; he recalled the inflection of Makoto’s voice, proof there’d been a question at all, and then the lengthy pause where he should’ve replied.

“Are you having sex?” he asked.

Makoto’s restraint was almost humorous. He gripped the table’s edge rather than flail about, and sweat trickled down his temple. His mouth twitched into a nervous smile. “I would tell you,” he said, staring at his lap. “I— I’d come to you first.” Haru opened his mouth in a soundless reply, but Makoto went on. “Is that why you haven’t been around a lot? Does she make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” Haru looked away, though there wasn’t much to look at in his small apartment. The wall was too close, the window too high, and he was forced to turn back to his best friend’s unconvinced smile. “But do you want to?”

Haru frowned when Makoto nodded his confirmation, though quickly added “Not _now_ ,” like putting it off would lessen the blow. But even hours later, their brief conversation left him unfulfilled. When he returned home Haru changed into his sleepwear, his loosey-kun tee stretched out from years of wear. He sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the blank wall, twisting the T-shirt’s hem around his hand. It was still early in the evening, the hours when people were clustering together to crowd the streets of the city. Haru breathed in deep, the air circulating through his lungs in the same smooth, easy way his body cut through the water. He became conscious of his body, of the weightlessness of his limbs and the new firmness of his muscles. He’d watch others in the weight room, but never considered anyone would watch _him_. Or _admire_ him. Certainly not admire him the way Makoto admired his girlfriend, or vice versa, or the way those clustered bands of college students eyed each other up in those loud, public spaces.

Haru realized he’d been staring at the closed laptop on his desk. He glared at it, the foreign object required for schooling and communication. It was almost too much effort to get up and retrieve it, but he crossed the room in three steps and was then back on the bed with the computer tucked under his arm. He lifted the lid, greeted by Iwatobi Beach on his background. It had been cold the day he took the photo, and there’d been no one on the beach. It was how he liked to remember it.

Simply opening the browser window made him look over his shoulder, like someone would be there watching. But it lessened the blow to be curled in bed as he typed “porn” in the search bar, rather than seated primly at the space where he conducted his schoolwork.

He sighed. It would be easier to buy a dirty magazine than scroll through the endless Internet options. All he wanted were pictures, not videos, and certainly not the pop-up advertisements for local girls who wanted to show him a good time. He stared at the ads anyway, cleavage taking up most of the picture and the girls probably wearing no underwear under their short shorts. He wondered if men in Tokyo, or even his apartment complex, were tempted by these girls waiting to accept their invitations to spend the night.

“This is stupid,” Haru muttered, as he clicked another link. He tilted his head, like that would offer a better angle of the video preview. He narrowed his eyes. The people were too clean-shaven, their skin too perfect. He winced at the prospect of a razor between his legs.

The pounding at his door was magnified by the room’s silence, vibrating his eardrums. He slammed the laptop shut and stumbled out of bed, kicking off the blanket tangled around his ankle. The knocking was persistent and annoying, which could only mean one person, but he couldn’t possibly—

“Haru!” Rin threw his arms open, a smile stretched across his face. “Surprise!”

“What are you. . . . You’re not—”

“Caught an early flight.” He pushed past Haru to get inside. “I wanted to surprise you guys.” Rin took a quick pan of the small apartment—his entire living space could be viewed from the front door—then dropped his bag. “Should’ve known Makoto wouldn’t be around. Probably with the girl, right?”

“I guess.” Haru closed the door, staring at him. He’d reluctantly agreed to let Rin sleep on his floor during his visit, but he hadn’t been due for another few days. Rin flopped onto the bed, the laptop bouncing beside him, and Haru couldn’t cross the room fast enough before Rin was pushing open the top.

 _“Haru.”_ He propped up on his side, wiggling his feet over the edge of the mattress.

“Don’t use my computer!” He lunged for the bed, but Rin cradled the laptop and flipped over to his other side. “Rin!”

But he’d already closed it, the computer lying silent on the bed beside him. Rin aimlessly traced a dolphin sticker its lid. “It’s okay, Haru. You’re not the only guy to look at stuff like that.”

Haru stood beside the bed, unmoving, arms hanging limply at his sides. “I wasn’t looking.” He turned away when Rin raised his eyebrows, the evidence suggesting the contrary. He refused to turn back when Rin sat up, and still when he opened the laptop. Without watching, he knew Rin was closing the windows. _Click, click, click_ of the touchpad, as each “invitation” and dirty image was erased from the screen.

“Are you gonna tell me what you’re thinking about?” Rin asked.

Haru sat beside him and glanced at the computer, which had been cleared of all evidence. His desktop background stared back at him: clean, pure, comfortable Iwatobi Beach. He couldn’t look away from the pixellated image, stretched to fit the warped dimensions of his computer screen. From the corner of his eye, he spied one of Rin’s eyebrows arching. Waiting. Impatient.

Eventually, Rin sighed. “Fine. I’m just gonna guess, and stop me if I’m wrong.” He sat up straighter. “You were looking at porn, but _not looking_.” Haru blinked impassively at the computer. “Your best friend probably wants to sleep with his girlfriend, but I bet he hasn’t because he’s afraid of everything. You have a ‘dirty’ magazine”—he curled his fingers into air quotes—“under your bed of _waterfalls_.” Haru finally looked up, glaring. “I’m not _wrong_.”

“What’s your point?”

“How about this: imagine the water.” Haru’s eyes fluttered closed. “You don’t have to . . . fine, close your eyes. You’re swimming. Or just drifting. Whatever you’re doing, you’re feeling the water. You’re . . . whatever you do in the water; I don’t know. Becoming one with it. It _gets_ you, right? And you get it.”

Haru’s head slowly tilted, a slow imaginary drift in an imaginary pool. “Mmm.”

“That’s sex.”

Haru opened one eye. “How do _you_ know?”

Rin slid off the bed with a muttered, “Forget it,” nearly slamming the bathroom door closed behind him. _Of course he would know_ , Haru thought, staring at the floor between his feet. Experience was unnecessary for romanticism.

Later, as they tried to sleep, Haru imagined the water. He lay on his back and stretched his arms out, one hanging over the bed’s edge and the other awkwardly bent against the wall. The mattress became the water, the sheets licking at his toes and his sides like waves. The water was vast; he didn’t merely float on it, he became part of it. The water never rejected his presence. His breathing steadied, and maybe Rin thought he was already asleep when he spoke.

“I know because I think about it,” he said, his voice deeper with exhaustion. “I’d like to share it with someone one day.”

Haru stared at the dark of the ceiling. There was a dim light from outside, but not enough that he could see Rin’s face if he tried. “The water made sense.”

There was a pause, and then, “I know, Haru.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until Rin returned to Australia that he told Makoto about the conversation. Makoto didn’t believe that it had just “come up” like he claimed—Haru preferred to not admit he’d been looking at pornography—but let it slide. They sat in an outdoor café, where Makoto was more concerned with making sure innocent passersby couldn’t overhear.

“It’s like the water,” Haru explained.

Makoto spun the straw around his iced tea, the ice cubes dully clinking inside the plastic cup. He wore that strained smile of his, the one that appeared when he felt shy or uncomfortable. Haru tilted his cup back, which held only a few shards of ice cubes at the bottom. They all crashed to his lips at once, the last trickle of water seeping between them. “Do you still have dirty magazines?”

He couldn’t remember the last time Makoto blushed so furiously; he first denied ever owning them, then admitted to only the one, then tried to remember a time he’d ever told Haru about it. Haru smiled, shaking his empty cup for the last remnants of ice to melt.

“I once saw Aki in a towel,” he said. “She said she’d kill me if I told anyone.”

Makoto rubbed his chin, eyebrows knit as he tried to piece together the relevance. “Why are you telling me _now_?”

“I didn’t care.” When Haru tilted his cup back again, more ice than water slid into his mouth.

The crease hadn’t smoothed from between Makoto’s eyebrows. “Weren’t you kids?”

Haru rolled an ice cube around on his tongue. “Still wouldn’t.”

 

* * *

 

He stayed late after practice again that night, waiting for his teammates to file out. There was only one person left on the other side of the pool, swimming slow laps back and forth. Haru floated on his back, listening for each of the flip turns, followed by the smooth breach as he began the crawl. But Haru remained motionless, allowing the water to carry him—feeling it on his back and his neck; feeling it on his legs, between his fingers, behind his ears. He stared at the skylight above, the first glitter of stars shining in the darkness.

The swimmer climbed out of the pool, disrupting the serenity of the water. “You comin’ Nanase?”

Haru closed his eyes and tilted his head back, his hairline dipping below the water. “No.”

There was a pause, then the slap of wet feet on tiles, and then he was alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't intend for "watersexual" to be a running theme, but that's Haru for you.
> 
> ([Here](http://letsswimtogethernanase.tumblr.com/post/117330683298) on tumblr.)


End file.
